Black is the Kiss
by ticktockboom
Summary: Harry wasn't able to escape Malfoy Manor and was brought face-to-face with Voldemort earlier than expected. The connection they shared because of the horcruxes becomes apparent and Voldemort finds that he can now control, and manipulate, the piece of soul that resides into Harry's body. Will Harry be turned, unwillingly, to Voldemort's side? Can good really conquer a strong evil?
1. The Touch of the Serpent Son

**Author's Note: **_This is the first story I've written that has steered away from the Harry Potter's book main plot line. While everything is as canon as I can make it to be, it does go on its own track. It's my own take on an evil!Harry story, starting at Malfoy Manor in DH but definitely trying to keep to Harry's character in the book as much as I can. I hope you enjoy this attempt and criticism and comments are much welcome. _

**Trigger Warning: **_There is non-consensual sex in this story. I'm really sorry, sincerely I am, I know it's a horrible thing to write about. I really encourage anyone who is triggered by sexual things to not read this story, it's not a nice at all. Furthermore, it has torture, dark/bordering on suicidal thoughts, blood, murder, and all those lovely things. Definitely not a light-hearted story._

* * *

Harry's scar was blinding him with pain. Dimly, he knew that they had moments, seconds before Voldemort was with them.

"Ron, catch – and GO!" he yelled, throwing one of the wands to him; then he bent down to tug Griphook out from under the chandelier. Hoisting the groaning goblin, who still clung to the sword, over one shoulder, Harry went to seize Dobby's hand to disapparate. Before he could, there was a jolting pain in his wrist, causing him to flinch back and miss Dobby's outstretched palm. Griphook slipped from his already weak grip and fell bodily on top of Dobby, and the whole jumbled group of people before him disappeared in a loud crack. Harry stared dumbly at where they had been before realising he had to escape too and he spun around on the spot.

Something flew past his ear and broke the tiles behind his head, which was enough to tell him he hadn't disapparated. Thinking much too slowly, he looked down at his arm and realised that a knife handle was sticking out from his wrist, with blood pouring down onto his palm where his wand should have been. The pain in his head was only intensifying and having no capacity to think of any other option, Harry turned and ran blindly from the room, hoping he was heading to some sort of escape. Back in the ballroom he heard shouts and cries of anger but he sprinted quickly, hoping he could outrun them before they got their hands on some wands.

The house was a maze and every corridor Harry ran through seemed to lead to a whole new section of the house. Hopes growing dimmer for a door, he tried to find a window he could jump from instead but couldn't find any of them either. Surely the house had been magicked to be endless and inescapable, as he had felt like he had been running for days – but the pain in his head, threatening to cleave it in half, was probably warping time. He kept getting flashes of Voldemort and with a haunting drop in his stomach, he saw the ballroom he had just vacated. Bellatrix was falling to her knees and pointing down the corridor that Harry had bolted through. Voldemort was on his way.

Harry tore open door after door, growing more desperate when each one opened to a seemingly eternal labyrinth. He could feel Voldemort getting closer and closer with every second. He opened a door and dashed through it before crashing head-first into a solid wall. This was the first room he'd encountered that didn't lead to another, so surely this had to be his escape! He turned wildly around looking for a door, a window, a cat flap, anything – but the walls were bare. This empty room with the barren walls was as pointless as a wizard without his wand. He got a flash of Voldemort's mind and – oh god, there he was, walking slowly down the hall towards an open door. The door he just opened.

Harry, now crying, felt along the walls hoping for a hidden door but found nothing. He could hear the swish of the cloak grow closer and he knew there was nothing more to be done. This was the end, he would die here in little dark, lonely room. He backed into the corner and sunk to his knees, burying his head in his hands. He had no strength to die upright, like a man – he could only hope Voldemort would be quick, not like the Dementors who liked to draw out their sentence and send their victims into dark despair before finishing them off. Harry remembered what he had heard when the Dementors encased him; the shouts of his father, the anger of Voldemort, the pleas from his mother…

_His mother. _His mother didn't die crouching in the corner of his nursery, hoping that Voldemort would finish her off quickly. She had died standing strong against hopelessness, fighting hard to give her only son a chance at life. If she could see him now, how her sacrifice had gotten him…

With that thought, Harry deftly stood up and faced the open door. He knew deep down this would be as pointless a final stand as his own parents, but he wouldn't die a coward. He had fought too long and too hard to let Voldemort take that last right from him. Absent-mindedly, he gripped the handle of the knife in his wrist and pulled it out, holding it front of him with as steady a hand as he could manage. He was bleeding heavily and if Voldemort didn't hurry up, he would die from blood loss soon. The blood from his wrist was dripping in time to the last seconds of his life. But - as he closed his eyes briefly - he saw Voldemort was already here.

Voldemort's form stepped into sight and through the doorway. He did not appear out of breath or even concerned at the fact that he had chased Harry throughout the manor. His face, snakelike as always, was a mask of detachment. The black robes he wore made almost no sound as he walked slowly across the floor towards Harry, red eyes locked onto green. Harry continued to hold the knife out, arm shaking visibly now, trying to disregard how ridiculous he felt - Voldemort's wand was held almost casually in the man's long fingers but he knew that his knife might as well be a freshly picked rose for all the power it held. Still - he was determined to die fighting, and this knife was all he had. Voldemort stopped a few steps away from Harry and regarded him in silence for what seemed like a lifetime.

Finally, he spoke.

"You are an insufferable little insect I cannot seem to squash," he spoke softly, with emotion absent from his high voice, "and I am tired of you. There is no one else to throw themselves in front of you, no one else to die because of your pathetic attempts to thwart me. It's time for you to die, Harry Potter, as you should have done seventeen years ago and as you always had coming to you."

Instead of raising his wand and shouting the last words he'd ever hear, as Harry had suspected he would do, Voldemort stepped up to Harry until he was towering over him. He never broke eye contact and Harry refused to do it either, even though the pain in his scar had reached a hysterical mass at this point. The knife was still held out but Voldemort didn't give it a second of his attention - like Harry thought, it was such an embarrassing weapon to wield that it was not even worth acknowledging.

"I'm going to see the moment you die. I'm going to see the light, finally, leave your eyes. I'm going to watch you as you die, alone, in this room. You - will - LOOK - AT - ME!"

The last words were screamed because Harry had finally reached breaking point and averted his eyes to the ground, closing them briefly in an attempt to stop the pain in his head. Knowing he would be dead soon and there would be no more pain couldn't stop him from at least trying to dull it. As his eyes closed, he was suddenly struck with a pain across his face as strong and as stinging as if he had been whipped. He gave a start in shock and in doing so, jerked his arms wildly in an attempt to protect his face. He felt the knife he held in his hand meet something solid as his back hit the wall behind him. Voldemort gave a shriek of rage and pain which caused Harry to open his eyes.

Somehow in his startled reaction, his knife had managed to slice Voldemort's hand open and blood was flowing as eagerly as the blood from his own wrist. Voldemort was staring wide-eyed at this wound and Harry wondered quickly if Voldemort had ever seen his own blood in combat - a part of him was even shocked that Voldemort had the ability to bleed. Perhaps there's only so much humanity you can give up in yourself. Suddenly, Voldemort's eyes flicked up to Harry's and he waved his wand violently. Harry's body was filled with an all-encompassing, but overly familiar, pain causing him to scream loudly, falling bodily to the floor and curling up in pain. The knife flew from his hand and clattered to the ground somewhere, but he hardly noticed as the cruciatus curse rendered him incapable of feeling anything but debilitating torture. He was helpless to stop the thought of the spider in Moody's classroom during his fourth year as it curled up in pain and then later killed by the killing curse – he was the spider this time and Voldemort was the sadistic teacher above him. Teaching him a lesson of pain for ever thinking he would defeat him and succeed. He was a tiny bug, waiting to be put out of his misery.

The pain was suddenly lifted and Harry pushed himself up into a sitting position, eyes streaming and his breathing ragged and violent. As the pain slowly disappeared from his aching body, he wiped his arm across his face and it came off covered in blood – the whipping feeling he felt before had left a long gash down his forehead, crossing his old lightning bolt scar. He was faint from the blood-loss, the running and the torture and most of all, from the fear. But – he had to fight this, because he knew these were his last moments as an irritating bug on this earth, so he once again raised his eyes to meet Voldemort's.

The man was standing there with his injured hand down by his side where the blood slowly trickled down to the floor, joining Harry's own symphony of drips. He had not attempted to heal the wound apparently and now stood there, breathing heavily, staring at Harry with an expression of utmost revulsion and demented rage.

"This has gone on much, much too long," he spoke quietly, his voice shaking with perhaps the tiniest of feeling, "but no longer."

He bent down to Harry with his wand outstretched and ready to be used at any moment and Harry could almost feel the boiling fury of power within it. The boy's heart was beating loudly now, loud enough to mask the sound of dripping blood and heavy breathing that filled the room. His eyes were falling deep, deep into the crimson tides of Voldemort's – knowing these were the last things he'd ever see, and he tried valiantly to think of his friends and his family, but they were overruled by the never-ending red that stared back at him. Voldemort's hands, disconcertingly soft, cupped his chin and tipped his head back in order to make their sight-line even more concrete. He let go, considered him for a moment, then put the wand under Harry's chin.

"Watch, Harry Potter," he whispered.

His hand then moved above Harry's scar and Harry knew what this meant – when Voldemort had touched his scar in the graveyard when he returned to life, he was filled with an agonising anguish. Voldemort intended this to be the last thing Harry felt. The blood continued to drip and so did the seconds.

Voldemort's hand touched Harry's scar, the blood from the knife wound meeting the blood from the spell. Blood from different men but sharing the same common ingredient of a mother's love and something else, something that the two did not know existed yet – the different, but same, blood met with a single touch.

And then suddenly -

Harry's mind went violently white and he thought that this was it, this was death, Voldemort had killed him after all this time and he was dying – but wait, this light was white not green, this was not what he expected then -

Images went flashing across his mind's eye in quick succession: _Riddle's diary, Gaunt's ring, Slytherin's locket, Hufflepuff's cup, Ravenclaw's diadem, Nagini the snake, _and then, absurdly,_ a lone baby crying in a crib._

There was a crippling pain in Harry's forehead, accompanied by an unexplainable warmth in his chest and he was thrust back into reality as violently as he had disappeared.

His eyes shot open. Voldemort was in the same position as he had been, but he was blinking rapidly and looked as thoroughly confused as Harry felt. He guessed they had shared the same vision, but he had no idea what this meant. Clearly it had been what all of Voldemort's horcruxes were (the snake had surprised him, and he had no idea what the baby meant) but why had they shown up in his mind then, and why had it done the same to Voldemort?

The wand under his chin was dug in deeper. "How dare you – how could you – who told you of them?" Voldemort was almost rendered incapable of speaking because of his ever-growing rage.

"Of what?" Harry answered, and the wand jabbed him hard.

"It had to be Dumbledore, that _bastard._ How could he - ! What have you been doing, you horrible creature? What - "

His last question was cut off as Voldemort attempted to grip Harry's injured wrist threateningly, only for the both of them to be greeted by the same visions as before.

_Riddle's diary, Gaunt's ring, Slytherin's locket, Hufflepuff's cup, Ravenclaw's diadem, Nagini, baby crying in a crib._

"Stop doing that!" Voldemort cried, and could that be a trace of shock in his voice? "How are you able to use such magic on me? What is this – GAH!"

"I'm not doing anything, I swear!" Harry shrieked. "It's whenever you touch me, I can't control it! I don't know - "

"QUIET!" Voldemort reached out and slapped him across the face, almost being unable to control his desire to hurt Harry, but it only sent them once again on a trip to those visions.

_Riddle's diary, Gaunt's ring, Slytherin's locket, Hufflepuff's cup, Ravenclaw's diadem, Nagini the snake, baby crying in a crib._

"NO!" Voldemort screamed. "NO, NO, NO! HOW DARE YOU USE THIS – THIS – WHATEVER IT IS ON ME! I WILL NOT ALLOW IT!"

"I don't – I can't – I have no idea what's going on!"

"Then I will find out!" Voldemort yelled. "You bought yourself more time, Harry Potter, this is true. But you will regret it in time. And you will still be brought to death under my wand."

He raised his wand.

Harry's world went black.


	2. What's Life Like Bleeding on the Floor?

**Trigger Warning: **_Torture, graphic violence._

* * *

Harry's return from the painless, black world of unconsciousness came in the form of intense pain suddenly ripping through his abdomen. Coming to reality so violently and so quickly caused his body to attempt to curl up before he could open his eyes, resulting in a searing pang as his arms were pulled hard from something bound around his wrists. The same thing happened to his legs and he let out a loud groan of agony.

"Wake up, you filthy thing," a voice spoke from above him, an unnervingly familiar voice.

Harry finally opened his eyes, only to be greeted by a blinding flash that took away his vision. He flinched, pulling on whatever gripped his limbs and caused more agony. After a few minutes his eyes finally adjusted and he could make out the figure that stood in front of him.

Bellatrix almost blended into the dark room they were in, becoming virtually a silhouette before him. In one of her hands she held a wand and in the other a camera - that explained the flash of bright light from before. She raised her foot and kicked him square in the chest with her boot, accounting for the sharp pain in his abdomen from before also. As Harry reacted to the torment, he was able to finally notice that his wrists were chained to the wall behind him and his ankles to the floor. From what he could make out in the darkness, this room definitely wasn't the cellar he had been locked in before - it was smaller and had the air of disuse, he was chained to the wall in a sitting position across from the only exit he could see which were a set of stone stairs leading up to more darkness. It reminded him of old bomb shelters the Muggle's had during the Cold War when the fear of being attacked from above was an undercurrent to every family home - he wondered, briefly, if wizards had had the same sort of fear back then. It would explain the room he was a prisoner in.

Bellatrix delivered another blow to his chest when he had daydreamed for far too long. He would have admonished himself but his head was far too woozy to really understand the seriousness of the situation he was in. All he knew for sure was that Bellatrix's steel-toed boots would remain in pristine condition long after his body was beaten, bloody and bruised.

"Wha – what's going on?" Harry mumbled.

"Stupid boy!" Bellatrix said, delivering another kick, this time to his kidney. "You don't speak until the Dark Lord permits you to."

With a jolt, Harry watched as a form even darker than that of Bellatrix's emerged from the shadows of the room. Voldemort approached Harry and stood beside his most loyal companion, surveying Harry with the same air of indifference. The hand that been slashed with the knife had been expertly healed so that the pale skin of the palm was once again unmarked and whole. From the throbbing upon his forehead, Harry did not think they bothered to heal his own wound - but with each palpitation from his laceration the memories of what had happened before he went unconscious came back, and he knew why he was chained up in a small, dark room. _The vision._

"I don't know anythi - AAAH!" Harry screamed when the cruciatus curse was once again inflicted upon his body. During his time being confined he would have this curse performed on his weak form too many times to attempt to remember, but he could not ever get used to the pain. It came fresh and sharp every time the word '_crucio!_' was exclaimed. Every caster used it in a unique way as well, meaning that one day he would feel like his entire body was on fire, and the other that sharp knives were being inserted into his flesh. Pain, he learnt, had many, _many, _different forms.

"What did I just say, Potter! Bite your tongue until told otherwise!" Bellatrix said, her voice trembling with badly hidden glee.

Controlling his urges to yell, Harry literally bit his tongue in order to not get tortured again. He sat as still as he could muster, staring up the two people before him with pulsing rage and fear. They stared back without speaking, almost taunting him to break his silence so that he could get punished. How funny this must be to them, to see the Boy-Who-Lived chained up, completely helpless and at their mercy. _How utterly amusing for them._

Finally, Voldemort decided to break the silence. "I will ask you only thrice, Potter, and you would wish to have an answer by then. What do you know about..._them_, what have you done in regards to them, how did you send the vision to me, and what did it mean?"

"I don't know anything!"

"For the second time: what do you know about them, what have you done in regards to them, how did you send the vision to me, and what did it mean?"

"Nothing! I don't know!"

"For the third time: what do you know about them, what have you done in regards to them, how did you send the vision to me, and what did it mean?"

"Stop it, I don't know, no!"

Voldemort nodded, satisfied, as if he had expected nothing less. He turned to Bellatrix and she returned the nod, smiling broadly now, not even attempting to hide her excitement. Voldemort turned and headed up towards the darkened stairs. "I'll leave you in the capable hands of my friends then, Potter. I'm sure in no time at all you'll begging to talk." He waved his hand almost casually over his head as he climbed the stairs and if you didn't know any better, you could have mistaken it for an amicable goodbye - if not for the tiny room, the chains, the pain in his body and the grinning, cheerful woman standing before him.

"You're allowed to speak in front of me," she said, "there's no asking for permission. I want to make sure when I hear you begging for mercy, it's loud and clear."

"I bet you don't even know the true reason why he's got me down here. Bet he didn't confide that in you, right?"

"He didn't need to confide anything in me to get me down here, Potter. The Dark Lord could have promised me a mouldy, earwax flavoured Bertie Bott's bean and I still would have come down here," she rested down on her haunches so that they were level now, her dark eyes glinting horribly, "and I imagine a lot of the others feel the same way. Oh, this will be _a joy - _torturing little baby Harry for my master, could I be any luckier?"

She flicked her wand and Harry felt the gash on his head re-open with a renewed vigour and warm blood started to seep from his forehead and down his face. Another flick and the shirt he was wearing was cut lengthways so that the material fell off his body and revealed his chest, already starting to bloom bruises from Bellatrix's boots. The same was done to his jeans and he sat there, clad only in his underwear and feeling very much exposed. Putting down the camera, Bellatrix reached into her robe and pulled out a long, silver knife with an ornate handle. Even in the darkness, he could see the blade had been sharpened to a maniacal veracity - so when Bellatrix scooted closer to his almost naked body, he tried to instinctively move away and only caused more pain to his extremities in result.

"No, no, no, please," he groaned, "don't do it, please."

The blade did not pause on its momentum to Harry's unmarred skin, it first touched it with its tip and then dug deep in, causing Harry to scream in a ragged voice. Bellatrix was deaf to Harry's cries and continued to deftly drag the blade across his chest, cleanly splitting apart his skin with the ease of parting curtains. The knife moved smoothly up and down, left to right, sometimes diagonally and even in the haze of extreme pain, Harry could tell Bellatrix was using his soft, outer covering as an easel for her deranged masterpiece. This pain though, this wasn't like anything Harry had ever experienced. Torture was not new to him, but this was something unfamiliar. As the edge made its way across the once smooth skin, a spasm of pain spread out across his entire body so that even his fingernails seemed to be on fire. He kept getting flashes, much like the ones he had recently shared with Voldemort, but they were quick and incoherent - _a baby, a green light, the cries of his mother in a dark room, jubilant laughter over a body, blood gushing from a wound, a crying child - _meaningless to him without context. Each one came whenever he felt a new wave of pain, snapping him back and forth between reality.

This went on for what seemed to be a lifetime, threatening to send him to plane of insanity with no return, before Harry could take it no more, and he screamed hysterically; "I'll tell you anything if you just stop, dear God, please!"

Bellatrix grinned, standing up now, cleaning her blade on the scraps of his shirt. The cuts in Harry's body were screaming with pain and he could feel the blood seeping out over his thighs and onto the ground.

"When did I give you the impression that I was trying to get you to talk? I'm just enjoying the moment, boy," the grin she showed after a successful torture would stay burnt into Harry's memory for a long time. "Do you know what I carved onto your pathetic body? No? Well I'll tell you, I think you'll appreciate it in time. It's the Dark Mark, the Dark Lord's insignia. You see, he has marked you, and until he decides that are no longer any use to us, you are here only because of him. Tortured because of him. Hurt because of him. Alive because of him. Your entire existence is for him. You are his. Do you understand?"

Harry, crying now, did not reply but Bellatrix seemed pleased with his answer. Coincidentally enough, Bellatrix did not know how accurate her threat was; in a way, Voldemort had always owned Harry. The path his life had taken had been as a direct result of the Dark Lord's, every decision and conclusion because of his continuing influence - an influence that was, perhaps, more than just skin deep, more than just a shared destiny and a shared blood. More than just a desire to destroy the other. But - Bellatrix did not know the weight her words had carried. She picked up her camera and with a satisfied expression at the scene in front of her, she took a picture, filling the room with a brief, hopeful flash of light - it disappeared quickly into the greedy darkness and was swallowed whole.

* * *

Diagon Alley was a ghost town, a shadow of its former self. Once it was a street that held magic and intrigue, with its unique buildings lining the street, filled to the brim with bright, chattering witches and wizards. Now it was dying, with most of its shops boarded up and dark, the streets almost empty except for a few scared people scurrying fast to their destination and the beggars hidden in the shadows. It was here that a man called Henry Davis was walking quickly towards Gringotts, intent on finishing his banking fast so he could be on his way on this grey, early morning. He was the first person to traverse the street that day and he was so focused on his objective that he almost missed the large poster hanging in the shop window of what used to be Potage's Cauldron Shop. A small movement was caught in the corner of his eye and he glanced up quickly, fearing the worst, but relaxed when he saw it was a photo on a notice. Though, the posters weren't anything to be calm about, when most of them these days were pro-Death Eater propaganda that made his stomach turn sickly each time he saw one. He approached the poster now, expecting to see a caveat concerning muggle-borns or Undesirables, but stopped in his tracks when he realised what he was looking at.

The poster took up most of the store window and featured a picture and a caption underneath. Henry raised his now shaking hands up to his mouth as he took in what the picture held. A man's body with his wrists and ankles chained up, sat on the floor clad only in his underwear. There were bruises all over his upper chest, arms and legs. On his stomach was carved a nauseating emblem, freshly carved too judging by the thickness of the blood flowing from it; You-Know-Who's Dark Mark. The man had his head hanging low, sweaty hair covering his face but Henry watched as he jerked up, tears flowing freely from his eyes and his face contorted in a grimace. There was a large cut on his forehead and dried blood coating most of his face. But there was an unmistakable mark on the man's forehead that made Henry gasp in utter shock; a lightning bolt scar, a vivid white against the blood.

Harry Potter.

The caption simply read: "_The-Boy-Who-Lived: Day 1_".

Henry felt all the wind leave his lungs and he couldn't take his eyes off of the poster. The Chosen One, the boy they were all hoping would save them...like that. Their seemingly only chance to win the war was being tortured in a faraway place. Somehow, the iciness within Diagon Alley had dropped to an unbearable degree and Henry hurried on with the image of the tortured man stuck in his head.

By mid-afternoon, it seemed that everyone knew of the poster that hung on the Cauldron Shop's window - though no one had explicitly said it out loud, there had been only whispers amongst the witches and wizards, whispers as soft and quiet as the wind that travelled across the magical communities. If people hadn't been scared before, now they were terrified - secretly, people had been putting their hope on Harry Potter, quietly confident that his disappearance from the news lately boded well for the fight against You-Know-Who. If he, arguably the most wanted wizard in the world right now, could evade public eye then there had to be something going on, something worth fighting for.

But now…

The atmosphere had darkened considerably; families disappeared during the night as their hope of surviving here any longer was now gone, pro-Harry supporters quieted and stopped planning for the war's end, friends of Harry Potter felt their hearts tighten and their eyes sting. Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade, Hogwarts, every wizarding district, all seemed to be living under a heavy, dark cloud, trapped amongst the feeling of dismay. And faraway, truly trapped in the most literal sense of the word, a boy was chained in a small room, bleeding and alone.

Harry Potter was dying and so was hope.


	3. Give Me All Your Poison

**Trigger Warning: **_Non-consensual sex, torture, graphic violence._

* * *

Time did not exist within Harry Potter's cell. There was no need for it. It's not like he had to meet up with someone at four o'clock, it's not like he had to have lunch at twelve o'clock and dinner at six, it's not like he had any errands to be done by the sunset or work that needed to be finished by tomorrow's dawn. Sure, it could be considered to exist when it felt like 'time was running out', or that 'time was dragging on' or that soon there would be 'no time left' - but even that was meaningless. How much time was running out? How could time drag on when he couldn't tell how long or short it was? How could he have no time left when he wasn't sure how much time he had before?

It didn't help that his mind was on the verge of breaking every other moment (_but how long is a moment_), threatening to crack like a rotting piece of wood. While he could recall everything that had happened during his time locked up, the memories were fragmented and out or order, not producing a coherent storyline but a jumbled mess of images. His inner film projector had been kicked around, burnt, broken and left to rust so that when he recalled the time (_what time)_ here it sputtered and coughed to life, choking on acrid smoke in order to show its warped reels of film. To be fair, it's not like Harry wanted to remember these instances in high definition images. He didn't want to remember it at all, but he did. Oh, he did.

He remembered: _Fenrir Greyback crouched beside him, speaking into his ear as soft as a lover would. His breath warm and sticky on his neck, smelling not much different than the food he was intermittently given when his stomach rumbles were loud enough; rotting meat, blood and dirt. His unkempt fingernails dragging over his skin, over his open wounds, over his scars. His voice low, ragged, excited. Speaking of what he would do to Harry's friends. How he would tear their throats out, how he could claw their chests open, how he would ravage their skin to an unrecognisable mess. How he would gladly do the same to Harry, how he smelt so sweet and so tasty, so desirable that he just couldn't resist a nibble. His teeth grazing his skin, not deep enough to penetrate, but enough to make Harry let out a horrible groan. _

He remembered: _Alecto Carrow standing before him, her wand a blur as she made his skin bleed and his nerves spasm. Her voice confident, her laugh wheezy. As he caught his breath when she lowered her wand, she talked of how disappointed she was to not be in Hogwarts right now. How she loved to torture the students there, how she loved to hear their screams of pain, and oh, didn't Harry have friends at Hogwarts? People he loved? Isn't that a coincidence, she giggled, because hadn't she just tortured a girl with shocking red hair who spoke so fondly of Harry Potter? Hadn't the girl shrieked when her body was hit with the cruciatus curse, hadn't she squealed when the blood burst from her wounds, oh yes she had. She told of all his friends that had been under her wand, spoke with glee, with passion, and Harry felt his heart compress tightly and he cried, cried, cried._

He remembered: _Unfamiliar faces that were all the same, really. They waltzed into the room with the same air of expectancy, their greedy eyes soaking up Harry before them. They all spoke with reverence, expressing how significant this was, how thankful they were to their Dark Lord for this moment, this chance, this honour. They started off slow at first, testing the waters, seeing how Harry would react, how far they could push him, taking their time. Savouring. Too many curses to remember, too many wounds opened and re-opened (the scar on his chest never getting a chance to heal), too often the words 'crucio!' yelled. Each leaving with a satisfied smile but for Harry it only meant the inevitability of another walking in. Different but the same, over and over again._

He remembered: _Bellatrix, who always fluttered in and out like an annoying sibling, never leaving long enough to be missed and overstaying her welcome. She would often be standing in the sidelines of the others, giggling and cackling, shrieking encouraging words and jeers. Though the shadows hid her he could feel her dancing eyes. She was born to be a torturer, fitting into the role like it was moulded for her, her wand an extension of her dangerous soul. In his dreams he would remember the sounds she made when he screamed, the way she would move with a frightening grace, the loving way she said her curses, the relief her face would show when Harry would beg for no more, please dear God, no more. Most of all he would remember her smile, when her poisonous lips would crack open and spread across her gaunt face, uncomfortably wide, almost too wide to be normal, surely her skin would rip from that smile - but no, no it never did. In Harry's dreams the smile would never stop growing, always growing, wide enough that he would fall deep down into that bottomless hole of despair with that maniacal laughter following him as he tumbled. Forever falling, tick, tock, tick, tock…_

* * *

Far away, in a place where time existed, the sun was struggling to come out from behind the grey clouds as it rose but it was a fruitless battle, the morning remained as bleak as all the days before and the days to come. Diagon Alley, though still as broken and barren as it had been, now held host to a quiet group of witches and wizards whose size had been growing as the days passed. They stood close together, almost shoulder to shoulder, as if to protect themselves from the rest of the world. Their eyes fixed on the window of Potage's Cauldron Shop where a large poster covered the window. This one bore the same character that had been in each of the other posters, but this one had the man in a new contortion of pain, with fresh wounds and bruises. Each sunrise had brought forth new posters, after the old one was ripped off like a page being torn from a calendar by an invisible hand. As the old one fell to the cracked ground, a new one would appear behind it with its new graphic. Other store fronts held different posters, clearly taken in the same torturing session, but the group in front considered Potage's to be the keystone.

The poster currently on the window trembled for a few seconds, before it was cast away and a fresh poster was revealed under the sun's weak rays. The group let out a small sigh as they studied it, the caption reading '_The Boy-Who-Lived: Day 6'. _It told them nothing new, but at least they knew Harry Potter was still alive somewhere out there. This did not have a particularly calming effect for everyone.

"This decides it,"a woman whispered to her friend, "I'm taking the family and leaving tonight."

A few people murmured their agreement.

"Where will you go?" Her friend asked.

"Somewhere safer," the woman replied. "Somewhere far away from this."

"You won't get away from this," a man grunted, "not anywhere in Wizarding Britain anyway. Don't see why you'd leave."

"We're _scared_, Henry," the woman said, raising her voice just a little.

The man, who was called Henry Davis and had seen the very first poster himself on a cold morning much like this, now pointed at the newest one they stood in front of. "_You're_ scared? How do you think _he_ feels? You leaving is just pandering to the fear You-Know-Who wants to create!"

"What can we do, Henry? If he can't fight him, what chance is there for us?" Her friend said.

"We can fight! We can fight for him! This'll never be over if people keep turning their backs and running away. We need to group together, stay strong, keep going - "

"There's nothing we can do! Don't be ridiculous! What can a couple of nobodies like us possibly do to end this?" The woman said, and the group nodded and expressed their assent.

"We can show them we're not going to let this happen!" Henry said and when the others avoided his eyes, he straightened his back and spoke softly but with all the conviction he could muster. "I'm not going to sit back and keep watching someone's descent into death every morning. If there's any chance of going back to normal, we have to fight. I'm going to fight, and I'm going to die trying, but at least _I tried._"

With that, Henry turned on his heel and walked briskly down the path of Diagon Alley, leaving the group behind with their brows furrowed. One by one they left the store's window, taking in one last glance of Harry Potter. Some of them would indeed leave in the night with their families to, they hoped, safer lands. Others would spend the night tossing and turning, thinking about what Henry had said and trying to ignore the nagging feeling in their minds. And maybe some would join Henry and fight.

As the night drew on and coloured the world in darkness, Harry sat in his cell oblivious not only to the small band of people who were gathering to fight in lieu of him, but also to the fact that his time (though non-existent to him) was almost up. His death was slowly marching towards him as it had always seemed to be, but he slept on unaware with the rest of the world. Tick, tock.

* * *

Harry was in a thick, soupy darkness that coated his entire body and weighed it down. He felt like he was floating - or, no, was it falling? Maybe they were the same. The black stretched on and on with almost no features around, save for a tiny pinprick of white light high above him. He knew that he had to go towards the light, yes, he was sure of that. He also knew that he felt so heavy that the idea of working up to that light was exhausting. It was so _high._ So up there when he was so far down here. It would be easy to just keep floating (falling) here under the oppressiveness, in the black where he felt safer.

But - from far away, he heard the noise of people speaking. Tinny voices that sounded like they were coming from a radio turned to the lowest volume, but voices nonetheless. It could be anyone, including the ones who had put him into this darkness in the first place. But it could also be someone else. It could be help. Emancipation.

So he started to push his way up, struggling against the darkness as if it was water threatening to drown him. As he rose higher towards the light and the voices, the pain in his body started to become more pronounced, which caused him to remember why he had retreated to the darkness in the first place. It didn't hurt there. He kept going, pushing, forcing himself up and out. The light grew wider and brighter until it engulfed him and for a while the whole world was only startling brightness. But then, as his eyes adjusted, he knew he was back in his real world. His cell. His home.

The light was coming from the door at the top of the stairs where he could see a shadowy figure leaning in. Harry remained still until the silhouette left the doorway and the uninterrupted light source continued to penetrate the room. Was it sunlight? He hadn't seem real sunlight in...however long it was.

The voices that he had heard were coming in from the open doorway, two male voices talking to each other.

"How is he?" The first, deeper voice asked.

"Still knocked out," replied the second voice, a lighter, raspy one. "But I could see him breathing. Thought I'd keep the door open so we can keep checking."

"Would Bellatrix want us to keep the door open?"

"Does it matter? He's going to be dead soon anyway," said the raspy voice. There was a grunt in reply and they fell silent.

It took a few seconds for his muddled brain to grasp the conversation. Harry knew he should be concerned at his apparent imminent death, but he couldn't bring himself to worry. He knew it was coming eventually and there was a part of him that longed to be finally gone from this place, no matter how it happened. Instead of stressing, he did he usual post-wakeup routine and checked to see the damage his body had taken. He moved his arms and felt no new pain, that was good. He next moved his legs and felt a shooting wave of agony spread up his left calf. Stifling a groan, he looked down at his leg and then quickly looked away again; it was coated in blood and he was sure he could see the white of a bone sticking out from his shin. Needless to say, it was probably broken. He became aware of a perpetual pain situated down near his chest and after he took a deep breath and was greeted with a fresh convulsion, he knew his ribs were most likely broken. Coupled with the headache, light-headedness, fatigue and all over aches, he figured that now wouldn't be a bad time to go, all things considered. He let his body go loose in his chains and tried to relax as much as he could, breathing slowly and trying not to cry in pain.

"What time did he say he'd be here?" The voice of the raspy man floated into the room from the open doorway.

"Not sure, soon. Be ready anyway," the deeper voice replied.

"Always am with him around," Raspy said. He paused for a few seconds before continuing. "Did you hear about the posters they've been putting up?"

"Yeah, with the boy? Causing a lot of fuss, I've heard."

"What I don't understand is why they're using posters. I mean, he's got the Prophet under control, doesn't he? Why not just slam it on the front page? Everyone would be guaranteed to see it then."

"Everyone _has_ seen it," Deep replied not unkindly, sounding like he had explained many things to Raspy before. "Putting it up in Diagon made sure of that. It also made sure that no one knew exactly who had done it."

There was a small scoffing sound which Harry assumed came from Raspy.

"No, seriously," Deep went on, "putting in the Prophet would have confirmed it was the Dark Lord's doing, because everyone knows that's under his control now. But with the posters, no one is certain. I mean, sure, the first thought is The Dark Lord. But what if it's not? It could be his Death Eaters, it could be Snatchers, hell it could be just a ploy to trick the dark side. You see? Making it uncertain - "

"Makes it scarier," Raspy finished, sounding like he finally understood. "See, I knew you'd be able to explain, you're smart like them. I just don't get it sometimes."

"Sometimes it's better not to be able to understand them," Deep said quietly. Raspy made no reply and the pair lapsed into a silence.

Harry took this time to let his brain catch up and digest their words. So they've been employing his tortured body on posters in Diagon Alley in order to scare people? It explained the curious presence of cameras whenever someone else had been in the room, something that he had never questioned beyond a twisted Death Eater habit. Using Harry as propaganda for what happens to anyone wanting to be a hero made perfect sense. He reasoned fairly, if you have a spare Chosen One why not utilise it? He had finally become a poster boy but not in the way Scrimgeour or Fudge could ever have envisioned.

Ron and Hermione would be feeling helpless right now, he was sure, if not the entire Order of the Phoenix. Watching the last days of his life and knowing they have no way to help Harry. With a jolt of pain and homesickness, he realised he would never get to say his last goodbyes to any of them, there would be no final farewell. If they could hear him one last time he'd tell them; "_I'm going to be okay soon, I'm going to be free, just keep fighting Voldemort. Keep being strong. I love you all._"

He took a deep breath to try and stop the overwhelming feeling of depression that had engulfed him and instead got the stabbing pains of broken ribs. Now he wasn't just sad, he was angry. Years of trying so hard to survive led him to this? Being stuck in a room with no one he loved, unable to fight or to say goodbye? Alone, frightened, confused and in agony. How was this fair? Voldemort had caused every single problem in his entire life, drastically altering it before he could even comprehend what was going on. Not only did he kill his parents before he could even remember them, but he continued to mow down the people who dared to protect him. And now this - keeping him isolated, separated from everyone, not even giving him one last moment with his friends and his family and everyone who had been important to him? Making sure that the last everyone saw of him was a crumpled up body on a poster in Diagon Alley? It was cruel. It was horrible.

With the feelings of dejection and infuriation encompassing his body, swirling around in his clouded mind, he couldn't deny that he was glad for his end. He wanted Voldemort in this room standing before him with a wand in his hand and a spell on his lips. It would over and he would curse Voldemort with his last breath. That's what he wanted.

He wasn't sure how long he laid in that sunlight, with the occasional sound of conversation washing over him. There was no time in his splintered mind. He just let his heart keep beating its final beats, his lungs keep breathing and his blood keep pumping. This would be the last of his pain.

"Hey," Raspy said suddenly, "what's that? Is that someone walking over from the Manor?"

There was a pause which after Deep said, "yeah, yeah I think it is. It's gotta be him. Stand at attention just in case."

There was a longer silence, during which Harry imagined a black cloak swishing against the grass as a tall figure walked quickly towards his cell. Finally he heard Deep and Raspy both murmur, "my Lord," and the sound of shuffling feet.

"You are both dismissed," said the cold, high voice, "report to Bella, she has more tasks for you."

"Yes my Lord," said Deep.

"Thank you my Lord," said Raspy. There was the sound of footsteps until they faded away.

The door was open wide and a silhouette stood in the middle of the sunlight, dark and featureless against the rays. It stood there in the doorway and Harry knew that Voldemort was looking at him, taking in the sight of Harry's broken body on the stone floor. An insurmountable time passed before the figure descended the stairs and planted himself squarely in front of Harry. Voldemort towered over him, his robes as dark as his shadow, his face curious at what lay before him. His eyes bored deep into Harry's, who refused to look away, he wouldn't falter this time.

"The-Boy-Who-Lived," Voldemort said quietly, "here you sit, crippled and defeated, at the feet of the Dark Lord. Tell me, how does it feel to know your time is almost up?"

At the mention of 'time', Harry reluctantly, but compulsively, snickered. When Voldemort's face twitched in obvious annoyance, he couldn't help but burst out in laughter. _Time? _Now that was a funny concept, Voldemort threatening him with lack of time. Time was nothing but an abstract memory to Harry now! How hilarious.

Voldemort quickly silenced Harry's laughter with a crucio but he couldn't wipe the small trembling of the corner of Harry's lips.

"I see the torture from my friends has broken your mind, which is a shame I must admit, I wanted you to be wholly aware of your last moments. No matter, this will do."

Voldemort started to pace back and forth, momentarily casting a shadow on Harry each time he passed through the sunbeams. He was fingering his wand in his long fingers as he walked, like he was itching to use it.

"The time you have spent in here has been productive," he continued, not ceasing his stride, "and you have relayed a lot of useful information during your torture. I wonder if you remember what you've said?"

Harry's wide-eyed face was enough to convey to Voldemort that he did not in fact remember saying anything at all. He thought he remembered everything clearly, but apparently not anything like that.

"You don't? Let me refresh your memory," Voldemort said softly. "You talked of how Ron Weasley and the mud-blood Granger know of my Horcruxes, along with yourself. You told me of the ones you've destroyed and the ones you suspect to exist. You explained how that meddling Dumbledore exposed my past. You could not tell me where your friends or the Order is hiding, which I admit is unfortunate, but not necessary, I will find them."

"No, no, no," Harry moaned. He thought the result of his torturing was the worst pain he'd ever experienced, but he was dead wrong. This feeling of betrayal was tearing up his insides; he had put everyone he cared about in danger just because he was too weak to resist the torment. He had no way to warn them or protect them, he was so helpless to save them which was something he rarely felt. His 'saving people thing', as obnoxious as it could be, was something he cherished about himself - his desire to always go out his way to protect the people close to him. And now it was Sirius all over again, he had put everyone in harm's way with his actions. He moaned, "I didn't...how could I do that. Don't you hurt them."

"Quiet, we have no time for your patheticness, your end is nearing but I still have one more thing to find out. Do you know what it is?" Voldemort asked and Harry shook his head. "Yes you do. Through some magic, we shared a connection wherein we both saw visions. I promised you I would find out how it was done, and I intend to keep that promise."

He had stopped pacing now and stood before Harry once again. His snakelike features held that same inquisitive look. Without changing his expression, he flicked his wand and Harry felt the Dark Mark on his chest split open after only being healed for a short amount of time. He didn't need to avert his eyes from Voldemort to know that blood was once again flowing from the wound; sometimes it seemed his body held an infinite amount of blood and it was always eager to be free from his skin. Voldemort seemed almost hypnotised by his blood flow for a few seconds, before he pointed his wand at his palm and suddenly a long gash appeared there.

"I regret having to spill my own blood for this," he murmured.

Now he bent down to Harry, crouching over him. From here Harry could see the excited gleam in his eyes; irises red like the colour of his blood. Voldemort studied his hand for a moment longer, then seemingly coming to a decision, he extended it forward and placed it on Harry's chest, where it joined his freshly opened wound. The visions came immediately (_diary, ring, locket, cup, diadem, snake, baby_) as soon as his hand came into contact. When they were over, he removed his hand and waved his wand to heal the wound, nodding to himself.

"We can confirm our blood coming into contact causes this, which could be reasonable, considering the connection between them," he said quietly, almost to himself, "but what if…"

Voldemort leant closer, not looking Harry in the eye, but rather at his wound. His lower body felt entirely coated in blood at this point and he was feeling light-headed and nauseous; Voldemort being so close did not help the situation. There was a slight pause while the man didn't move and only continued to stare. Then suddenly, and to Harry's immense shock, Voldemort lowered his head to the gash. Harry felt the cold, dry skin of Voldemort's lips touch his cuts and within seconds, they were thrust into another vision (_diary, ring, locket, cup, diadem, snake, baby_) but the images were clearer, longer, with varied emotions connected with each one; curiousness, victory, satisfaction, anger, confusion. When he returned to the real world, Voldemort was already standing up and wiping his lips.

"Just as I thought, it's not just the blood," Voldemort said, pacing again, "it's something more. It's as if our...fluids are reacting to each other, perhaps even our DNA. I have never seen this type of magic before, never in my years of studying all there is to know. How can this be?"

Harry's head was reeling with so many thoughts and feelings that it was harrowing. He couldn't make sense of what Voldemort was saying or what was happening. A connection with their DNA? How can that happen? Why would it cause visions? Had Voldemort, a man who was disgusted by close contact with other people, really put his lips on Harry's chest? He had thought Voldemort had come to kill him, but instead he had come to confuse and surprise Harry and leave him worse off than he was before.

Abruptly, Voldemort stopped his pacing once again. He turned to look at Harry and Harry couldn't help but gasp at his expression; it was a terrifying mask of satisfaction that meant only harm to Harry. He was fingering his wand again and nodding.

"Yes, yes, that is perfect," he said. "You see, Harry Potter, while I do not understand why this is happening, I understand how it happens. When our bodily fluids interact they cause the visions, yes? Blood was strong, saliva stronger still. But do you know what is potentially the strongest fluid in a humans body, a matter which has the potential to create life?"

"N-No," Harry said, not being able to hide his shaking voice.

Voldemort had the smallest of smirks on his gaunt, pale face. "This will be an apex of humiliation for you. What a perfect way to not only test and confirm this theory, but also to make sure the whole wizarding world sees you as the worthless piece of life you are. To lose their faith in the Chosen One. How fitting it is."

Everything that came after this statement happened in quick succession; Voldemort pointed his wand at the corner of the room and a floating camera appeared, he then pointed the wand at the door so it closed with a resounding bang, next he pointed at Harry's chains and they disappeared and he slumped onto the floor without having any support. Before he could gather himself, he felt fingers grasp at his hair and pull him up to a standing position. He put the tiniest of weight on his left leg and it screamed in utter agony, causing him to shriek as well. It was almost too much and he felt his vision pulse in and out, putting him on the verge of fainting. He felt a slap on his cheek, and though it couldn't compare to the horror he was feeling down at his shin, it did steady his mind. Quickly, he was thrust face first into the room's wall with his ribs joining in the symphony of misery in his body. The strong hand remained at the back of his head, forcing him to stay in this position.

When he felt the other hand roughly pull down his briefs, which had been the only clothing on his body during his encampment, and the cold air touch his previously covered skin, he suddenly understand what Voldemort had meant. '_The strongest fluid with the potential to create life_'? Of course. Of. Course.

Harry didn't bother wasting the little breath he had left to beg for it to stop, he chose to focus instead on blocking out the pain that encased his entire body and remembering the best moments in his life.

When the other hand came to rest on his shoulder blades and added to the force holding him to the wall, he thought of Hagrid coming into the little house on the rock and telling him that yes, he was special and yes, he could get away from this world of the Dursley's. When he felt something horribly cold and hard on his skin, he remembered the first time on a broomstick and how it felt to fly up in the sky, free and in control, something that he was finally good at. When the ripping pain started, he focused on when Sirius promised that they could be a family and they could live together and never ever again would Harry have to go to the Dursley's, no sir, they were never going to be in his life again. When the body behind him rocked back and forth he thought of kissing Ginny in the common room and how soft her lips were and how full of life she was and how she was warm and not cold and she was alive and she loved him and he could feel her love. And when there was the last final thrusts and he knew it was almost over, he was too exhausted to think of specific memories and he instead thought of just Ron and Hermione's faces, smiling at him, laughing with him, wanting him to be alive with them and together forever and something was now filling him up and he could feel it and it felt so horrible and so cold and so wrong and it was seeping into his body and and and -

* * *

_He was in front of Lily Potter as she stood defiantly against him, arms spread wide as a last act of protection for her son. It was no use, her pleas fell on deaf ears and her final moments would be all for naught. A hand raised, quickly, confidently, and pointed itself at the woman. The wand within in did not falter or pause but instead flashed out a shot of green light and the woman crumpled to the ground, empty, broken._

_He looked at the baby in the crib who looked back at him. An unmarked, wholly uninteresting baby. It was almost too easy to defy this prophecy, but it would be over. It would be done. He would never be defeated._

_The arm rose again to point at the baby who did not know what was about to come. It would die clueless. He spoke the words that ended so many lives before and would continue to do so, and then the whole world turned green and he felt_

_disconnected_

_he was floating above the room now, not in a body, not in anything. Who he had been in before was gone from this broken, tattered room and as he looked desperately for any sort of refuge, he saw it. A baby who called to him, who had something in his veins/heart/blood that beckoned his presence. The baby is where he belonged. He shot down and into the child, gaining access through his scarred forehead and settled himself comfortably within the child's chest._

_He was home, now. He was safe._

* * *

Voldemort took three steps backward as he returned violently from this newest vision. The boy had collapsed onto the floor and was coughing and choking, attempting to crawl away on a broken leg. Voldemort paid no attention to him as he was hit by strong waves of understanding, a sudden realisation that was so obvious now, so clear, and he had been so foolish to not have realised it. It had never been just a connection of blood or wands that he and the boy shared, no, it was much more than that, stronger than that.

They were connected by souls. Unwillingly, and unaware, when he had been defeated that night a piece of soul had left his body and attached itself to the nearest living thing in the room. To Harry Potter. To the boy destined to kill him. He was no longer an enemy, he was a part of Voldemort's lifelines. Voldemort suddenly became enraged; at his complete lack of understanding, at the closeness that he had been to losing another piece of what held him to life, at the irony that the person he most hated now had a remnant of Voldemort inside of him. This should not have happened, this was unacceptable. He let out a shriek of rage.

He suddenly became aware that the boy had stopped crawling and was now paused and breathing heavily. A trail of blood was left behind him. The boy then, using the wall for support, stood up and turned slowly to face Voldemort. There was no fear or pain on his pale face anymore. There was a pause where the two were frozen, staring at the other.

Then, the boy fell to one knee, grimacing in pain as he did so. He lowered his head to the ground and bent his back.

"My Lord," he said so quietly Voldemort almost didn't hear it, but there was no questioning what he said. The boy was _bowing to him. _His head lifted back up and those green eyes never faltered from their intense gaze. "I live only to serve you."

Then the boy's eyes rolled up into his head and he collapsed into a pool of blood, unconscious to the world.


	4. Like a Secret in Your Throat

**Author's Note: **_This is so late, I'm sorry! The world has been busy over here and now I've gone back to uni for the year, it's only going to get busier. I'm really going to try to keep updating regularly but if I'm late, you'll know why. The first half of this chapter is quite slow-paced, but I really wanted to make the point of how transitioning from captivity to something else is extremely hard on Harry's mind, so I hope it's not too boring. Much love to all the reviews I've gotten, as well to all the followers and favourites. Really makes my day. Thanks everyone!_

* * *

Harry came from the depths of unconsciousness with a startled yelp and flailing arms. He had dreamed of Bellatrix's wide, gaping smile again, where he had fallen into her cavernous maw with her shrieks of laughter following him as he tumbled. The dream was fading already, but he could have sworn he had heard the sounds of a baby's cries the further he fell. Feeling jumpy, he quickly scanned the room to make sure Bellatrix, or some other horror, wasn't lurking in the corner of his cell. That was when he realised a few things.

The first was that he was, in fact, not in his cell at all. There seemed to be a small slit of light coming from the top of the wall behind him, so that the room was dimly lit and he was able to make out the features. It was about five and a half feet wide and nine feet long, with a cream carpeted floor and a white ceiling. Along the back and side walls were different sized planks made of a dark brown wood and at the front of the room was a white, heavy-looking door with a golden handle. The layout of the room looked vaguely familiar and after considering it, he came to the conclusion that he was in a walk-in wardrobe, something he had only seen in pictures of a rich person's house, that had all the shelves and drawers taken out from the structures. This could be a whole new place of imprisonment, but it wasn't the stone walls and floors he had grown accustomed to.

The second thing he came to notice was that he wasn't chained anymore, with nothing holding him to the ground except his own stunned body. He tentatively stretched out his arms, which were stiff and sore, but they were free. Next he wiggled his legs, relishing how it felt to be able to move. He stood up shakily, using the planks on the side as leverage, and slowly walked to the door at the front. After days of not being able to walk he was a bit haphazard in his stride, but he was just grateful to be unshackled. He tried the door handle but it was locked, he had expected nothing less.

The third thing he registered was his general health. His leg, which he had last seen as gushing blood and stabbed from the inside by a shattered bone, was unmarked and whole. It bore no pain as he strode around the room. His ribs were similarly healed and he took deep, refreshing breaths. He could see no more bruises or open wounds on his body, save for an already fading scar on his wrist and he could feel a scab on his forehead. He looked down at his bare chest and saw that a bandage was wrapped around it, covering the Dark Mark that was carved into his skin. It wasn't hurting but he didn't want to remove the bandage, if the wound was not healed and still fresh upon his skin like a message to remind him of his time in the stone room. Overall, he felt good. His body was stiff from lack of use and he was very hungry, but other than that, he could almost pretend that he had never been the Death Eater's plaything.

The last thing he noticed lay on the floor, at the head of the king single sized mattress he had woken up on. It was a bundle that he knelt to and then quickly wiped his watering eyes as he understood what it was. There was a single pillow, a cotton quilt and a thick, woollen, black robe. They were such simple pieces of commodities, items which he had taken for granted for most of his life and after spending days with only a cold, stone floor to which to rest his body and clad only in his underwear, seeing these things lying innocently there hit him hard.

He gently dressed himself in the robe, settled his head on the pillow and wrapped himself inside the quilt. From there, he cried long and hard, because he knew he wasn't safe yet, and he'd never leave his stone cell, it would always live in his mind. He eventually cried himself to sleep, alone on the mattress, the quilt tightly around his body like cocoon.

When he awoke later on, the slit of light was now dark and the room was full of shadows. He was still wrapped tightly in the sheets and he lay that way for a while, revelling in the warmth. It wasn't until he heard the soft cry of a bird somewhere outside that he noticed he felt different. He couldn't put his finger on it, but something was off about him. Something small but significant. What had happened to him recently? He'd been tortured and starved, carved and broken, but that wasn't all. What was he not remembering?

He squeezed his eyes shut and thought hard. Voldemort had come to see him, that's right. He thought he had greeted his death but here he was, alive and breathing. The memories of that day was slowly surfacing in his mind, the old projector finally kicking into gear and grunting along. He was told he had confessed the secret of the Horcruxes, he remembered that with a pang of guilt. He wanted to move quickly on from that so he didn't drown in despair. What else happened? Voldemort made their blood interact, yes, and then he had kissed Harry's stomach, in a bizarre twist of events. There had been visions. And then...and then what? There was something else. Something bad. Something…

_Oh_. He remembered. The powerful hands on his skin. The ripping. The pain. The violation of his body in the most shameful and intrusive way, the complete theft of his sense of control in his own self. He felt a sickly sense of disgust spread over his body and he didn't want to be seen by anyone ever again, he would be content to just rot in this room as long as he'd be left alone. He was tainted, ruined forever. For a little while, he could only lay there as the recollections of what Voldemort done to him kept attacking his mind. He took deep, long breaths until his thumping heart slowed down.

There had been more after...after the incident. He remembered being filled up with that horribly cold liquid and dropping to the floor, his broken leg jarring against the hard ground, but his mind had gone to another place at that point. There had been a new vision, a stronger, clearer one this time. Not just snippet of scenes but an entirety of one. He had been Voldemort - no, he had been inside of Voldemort, watching his mother die and the wand being lowered at him, watching one of the most critical moments in his life. Of course, the spell that meant to kill him had backfired and Voldemort had been ripped from his body, destroying the house as he went and leaving that little baby behind. In the vision he had left Voldemort's body and then gone into his own, but he didn't know what that meant. Had it been symbolic of the prophecy coming true because of Voldemort's decision? He felt a distressing sensation in the back of his head that he wasn't making an important connection, but his mind was perhaps too damaged now to see any hidden answers.

What he sincerely wanted to know was how he ended up in this room. All he could think of, after coming back from the vision and crawling a few steps in a desperate attempt to flee, was feeling an odd sensation spread out from his chest to the rest of his body and then it was all red. Whatever had happened, if there had been anything at all, was hidden behind a red curtain that fell over his memories. He thought as hard as he could as he lay on that mattress, but after a long time he only had a stinging headache and no further explanations. He could only conclude that an upgrade to a room like this meant that Voldemort wanted to keep him alive for a bit longer, for whatever reasons. He couldn't help but be reminded of when the Dursley's moved him from the bedroom under the stairs to the smallest bedroom to keep his mind away from the Hogwarts letters streaming into the house.

After his mind had been rendered useless in remembering what had happened, he tried to climb up to the slit of window using the wooden slats on the wall. It became clear very quickly that he had become very weak during his time locked up, as he couldn't even lift his body off of the ground. His arms were shaking with the attempt to pull up his body weight, which from what he could see and feel, wasn't the mass he was accustomed to. He did laps around the small room at a feeble attempt of exercise but it did not take long to be drawing shallow, harsh breaths and wobbling around on shaky legs. He resigned himself to the mattress and tried to stay awake and figure out the mess he was in, but his body could not handle being active any longer and he fell, once again, into a doze. Every so often he would awake, shivering and gasping, having been in dreams where shrouded men and women laughed and tortured him. After calming down his heart, he would fall back asleep, exhausted, and repeat the process until sunlight once again streamed in from the little window.

* * *

A sudden knocking filled his head and broke the dream he was having. Without opening his eyes, he groaned into his pillow. It would be his Aunt Petunia, rapping at his door to get him up and do his daily duties, something which she had pushed him to the extreme doing yesterday, judging from how tired he felt. But, hang on, that knocking was a lot deeper than he was used to - perhaps someone was at the front door, but in that case, why wasn't someone answering it? It seemed to go on for a long time. Now that he thought about it, this bed didn't feel quite right to him and he had never heard knocking in the Dursley house that deep before.

With a gasp, Harry suddenly sat straight up in his makeshift bed. The thought of being in the Privet Drive house disappeared in an instant and he remembered exactly where he was. Someone was knocking at the white door of the walk-in wardrobe, knocking hard. Doused in cold terror, Harry scooted himself backwards until he hit the wall and then crawled into a corner, curling his body up to be as small as he could. He had _known_ his pain wasn't over, he had _known_ he wouldn't be let off that easy, there were fresh new torturers out the front and he _knew_ it, they would be back to hurt him again and again and again, he would never be free or safe as long as he lived. He started to shake violently and put his fist into his mouth to stop the screams and sobs that threatened to escape him. The knocking continued, loud and sure, reverberating in his skull with every beat. He couldn't take it anymore and he covered his ears with his hands and tightly closed his eyes, wishing that he were anywhere else but here. Suddenly:

_Flashes of his past torture drilled into his mind and he wasn't in the walk-in wardrobe anymore, but back in the stone room, encircled by Death Eaters and other various enemies, most notably being of Bellatrix and Voldemort. They were shouting curses with their wands held aloft, all pointed at Harry who could only watch them from his confinement. He felt pain penetrate every inch of his skin and he tried to scream but they had gagged him so any expression of pain, bar his tears, were muffled. They were cackling and jeering and he wished for the sweet release of escape, death, anything was better than this._

Just as abruptly, he was back in the walk-in wardrobe, jerking out of his flashback. It had felt so real that it took a while for him to realise that this cream coloured, carpeted room wasn't a dream but reality. Once again taking shallow breaths to calm himself, he noticed that the knocking had stopped and the door remained closed. The dusty sunlight showed that he was still alone in this small room. The only change was a tall glass that sat on the floor near the door with a folded piece of paper next to it. He forced himself to crawl slowly over to it, nerves wound tightly. The glass was plain with small droplets of condensation running down the sides, filled to the brim with a light-golden coloured liquid. It seemed perfectly innocuous. Harry looked down at the note beside it and in neat, uninteresting handwriting were the words;

_Being deprived of substantial solid foods in your diet for so long _

_means that regular foods will have to be introduced to your _

_digestive system slowly, starting with juices. _

_Ensure that you drink this apple juice._

It was not signed by any name at the bottom. Harry shot a doubtful glance at the glass, hearing his stomach rumble, but not being able to trust this apparent sign of goodwill. Nothing he had experienced so far hinted at keeping his health positive. He picked up the note and flipped it over if there was anything else on the back. In the same writing, there was a short note that seemed to predict exactly what he had thought and addressed those thoughts;

_It's not poison._

There was nothing else on the note and after rereading, he chucked it to the side, and regarded the apple juice. On one hand, he didn't think he could trust anyone anymore - let alone an anonymous juice giver - to not be planning something to hurt him, and the chances this juice was poisoned was extremely high. On the other hand, what did he have to lose at this point? It seemed too often recently he was coming to the cusp of death and not ever reaching it, so why not keep plunging forward?

Besides, he thought as he picked up his drink in shaking hands, spilling some over the edges, if he had to die comfortably with juice in his throat then that'd be okay to him. Better than a wand at his throat anytime. One sip of the sweet liquid was enough to confirm there wasn't any dastardly plot, but he still made sure to sit far away from the door if someone were to announce their presence again. Despite everything, he was still absolutely terrified of what awaited him, but like seeing the small commodities next to his mattress, the apple juice calmed him in a simple, long-forgotten way.

For five days that he could kept track of with the rise and fall of the sun (_how easy it was for him to fall into the habit of keeping time once again_) a knock would resonate on the door during mid-afternoon, heralding the presence of something new to fill his shrunken stomach. With each knock, he couldn't help but be taken back to the time of his torture, the flashbacks taking over his mind with such ease. It was as if his food-giver knew knocking sent him into another world, because when he'd finally be free from his memories, there'd be a new item on the floor for him to consume. He tried to keep a clear mind to see who it was, but he just couldn't control his reaction. Whoever was feeding him was as much of a mystery as where he was.

On the fifth day, he had gotten enough energy in his muscles to pull himself to the small window. His view was from high up, looking over an expansive forest of trees that stretched on for as far as he could see. Pulling himself higher and angling his sight-line down, he could make out a large, green lawn enclosed by a high brick wall that was backed by the forest. He could make out the tops of a few smaller buildings on the grounds, but nothing significant to give him any indicator of where he was. He couldn't even tell if he was in Britain anymore.

Harry spent a few minutes holding himself up at the window and taking in what he could see of the scenery before him. He had not seen the real world - apart from the soft rays of sunlight - in too long, much too long. He had forgotten it, lost within his own world of pain and confusion, guarded by tall walls of encasement of his own. But now - looking out into the real world, where the tops of the trees rustled with a small breeze and clouds floated lazily along the blue sky, he remembered what he had left. There was a war going on out there, somewhere. Had there already been a winner declared? Was Voldemort defeated or was he reigning supreme? How had the world changed since he had been gone, or had it not changed at all? Was he ever going to be free and let back into his normal world, or was this his life now? Was this even a life?

A bird was flying in the distance over the tops of the trees and he watched its flight, feeling so apart from the real world that was continuing on without him. He wished the bird would fly to him, coming through his window and offering a wing so he could fly on its back and be taken away. Suddenly, he became aware of a new sound. Not coming from outside the room but somewhere close by, a rattling sound. He turned his head and saw that the golden handle of the door, usually still and unimportant, was jiggling. His already weak legs that had been shaking now collapsed completely and he fell bodily on to the mattress below. He gathered himself as his heart thud heavily against his chest, threatening to explode or stop completely, and saw the handle jingle once more. Then, the door made a click and it swung outwards.

It was dark beyond the door, the light from his room barely penetrating the one beyond. He could see shadowy objects but not discern what they were. He couldn't see any person or person's but they could easily be hidden among the darkness. There was no sound, apart from his convulsing heart and laboured breathing; no threats yelled, no spells thrown his way, no persuasion to leave the room. Only silence and darkness. For a long time he stayed where he was, in a defensive position on the mattress and perched ready to attack if he saw anything beyond the doorway - but there was nothing.

It was obvious the door had opened for him to go through, whether as a taunt or a trap he couldn't be sure, but the door remained still and he felt it stay that way until he went through it. Nerves still wound tight and his heart still thudding, he looked around his room for a weapon. He had already tried to remove the wooden structures from the walls but they were resolutely stuck with no bolts or screws for him to undo. The mattress couldn't be ripped open so that he could fashion a bed spring as a weapon and there had been nothing in his robe that he could use. The only thing left was one of the glasses he had been given yesterday for his meal, that hadn't yet been taken away like the others. He already knew that the glass couldn't break, no matter how much he slammed it against the floor, but it could be suitable for a blunt weapon. He picked it up in his shaking hands and gripped it tight; it would do.

The room beyond remained silent as he slowly approached the door, his eyes probing desperately into the shadows. He stood on the threshold, using the door frame as support with one hand and holding the glass aloft with the other, his heart now erratic and his breathing bordering on hyperventilating. He took one hesitant step. Nothing happened. He took another step. Still, nothing happened. His eyes adjusted to the darkness and he could start to make out some furniture, a table and a couch were the closest in his peripheral. Another step. More furniture came to light but he could not see any walls as of yet, this room was apparently very large, and not lit by any sources of light. One more step and he looked back to the doorway of his little room, now seeming so faraway and small, its light offering comfort and safety. He looked away before he could bolt back in there. One more step, and now a large, expansive bed came from the shadows; a regal one that could surely house a small family on it. Behind it, finally, was one wall, removing some of the feeling that he was lost in an abyss. With another step he finally saw a door with the tiniest slit of light coming from the bottom of it, a small but desperately hopeful line of light. Filled with a sudden burst of hope he broke into a run and went for the door almost tasting escape on his dry lips. The door and the wall grew closer and other parts of the room came into focus as he ran but he could only focus on the door. He was so close now and he reached out his hand for its handle, like he was reaching for a snitch when -

Behind him, a loud slam. He whipped his head around and saw that the wardrobe door was closed and the only light source now gone. In his shock he forgot he was still running and crashed sickly into the door and crumpled to the floor. The glass fell from his hands and rolled away into the darkness. His head was swimming and he blindly tried to find the door handle, hands moving desperately and from behind him he could hear soft footsteps. It had been a trap. He had to escape. He found the handle and tried to open the door but it was locked, staying defiantly shut.

"No!" He gasped, pulling as hard as he could but the door stayed closed. He had been so stupid, of course the door would be locked! How foolish of him to think escape would be that easy. He turned quickly, putting his back against the door and scanning the room, hearing those footsteps approaching but not being able to make out anything in the inky blackness. He did not realise he was gibbering quietly to himself, his body shaking violently, his heart beating a tattoo on his skinny chest.

The footsteps stopped, close to him, much too close. He couldn't see anything. He couldn't hear anything. He had started to bit his lip in fear so that blood was slowly trickling down his chin. There was a sudden flash of light and a lamp on a table to his right was suddenly filled with a rippling fire. It filled the space he was in with a small cocoon of light. At first, he was the only one in that cave of light. But then a figure, emerging from the shadows with the ease of a man who knew how to live in the darkness, stepped into the light and he was no longer alone. One look at that gaunt face sent Harry into a panic and he ran blindly into the darkness, not realising he was screaming. He crashed into various pieces of furniture and was sent flying the ground several times. Somehow he came to the wardrobe door and found himself, again, pulling desperately on a door handle that refused to open. He was stuck. He was terrified. He fell to the ground and rocked back and forth, tears mixing with his blood and falling to the floor. His mind was now in the grips of a powerful anxiety attack and he was taken far, far away, into his memories of being tortured and hurt.

Somewhere, back in the real world, those familiar hands gripped his wrists and pulled them apart. The Harry there tried to fight back but he was no match for the power the hands held. His chin was pulled upwards and his mouth forced open and some liquid was poured down his throat. The hands released him as he swallowed involuntarily.

Slowly, his anxiety and his fear started to ebb away and he started to return back to reality. His memories faded away and his mind was, thankfully, clear. The mounting panic that had encased his body was gone and his heart slowed, his shaking stopped, his gibbering mouth quieted. He leant back on the door as his body filled with calmness, soaking into his bones and his skin. While the perception of danger still resided in his mind, the edges had been softened considerably. He took a deep breath.

In front of him stood Voldemort, tall and dark as ever, the shadows making him look like a skull. He was corking an empty glass vial while not taking his eyes from Harry.

"Calming Draught," he said quietly in his high voice, "I didn't think I'd need all of it but it seems your psyche is more damaged than I originally thought."

Harry didn't know what to reply to that, so he stayed quiet. Voldemort finally succeeded in corking bottle and he placed it on a table beside him. Somewhere in the back of Harry's mind - perhaps the same place where he had fought off the Imperius curse - a little, tiny voice was urging him that he was in big, big trouble. How he could sit there calmly as Voldemort towered above him was absurd, it pleaded, and it was time to run. The voice, though audible, was too weak for the calm feeling he was drenched in.

"It is interesting how much the mind can take. How much torture and pain it can sustain without splintering. The body may collapse before the mind ever does," Voldemort continued, still gazing at Harry, "and while your mind is cracked it is not broken. You're not insane."

"I feel a bit insane," Harry croaked out. "I have no idea what's going on."

Voldemort nodded. "I intend to change that. We're going to _palaver_, do you know that word? No matter, it's not important. Come."

He turned and walked to a set of brown leather chairs just off to their left, lighting a lamp as he went and illuminating the room a tad more. Harry, knowing he was supposed to follow, rose jerkily to his feet. He wasn't shaking which was nice. He made his way slowly to the chairs, trying not to make eye contact with the man standing there waiting.

"Sit," Voldemort ordered and waved his hand at the chair. Instinctively, Harry flinched, expecting an attack. When nothing came he quickly sat in the chair and pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around his legs. Voldemort sat down across from him with the same intense gaze.

"I'm not going to kill you," he said.

"Excuse me?" Harry replied in total disbelief. "That's all you try to do."

"If I had wanted to kill you, I would have already done so. I already told you, we're going to _palaver_ - we're going to talk. And I don't have time for you to say redundant things."

"I have no idea what's going on, so forgive me if I don't sound particularly loquacious," Harry snapped.

"You dare speak to me like an insolent child? Do you not remember I have the capability to severely hurt you and crack your mind even more?"

"You just said you wouldn't kill me! That we're here to talk!"

"And we would discuss matters if you would hold your tongue," Voldemort hissed and they both fell quiet. Harry's confusion was growing rapidly with every passing word. What the hell was going on?

"Better," Voldemort said when the silence stretched on for minutes. "Let us not draw this on any longer than we need to. I'm going to talk and when I need you to talk, I will tell you so, if not you keep quiet. This isn't school and I'm not some teacher who will tolerate your insubordination; I am the Dark Lord and you are beneath me and you will do as your told. Nod if you understand."

Harry nodded. There was more silence for a short time, as it seemed that Voldemort was mulling over exactly what to say. Harry noticed that the little voice in the back of his head had grown louder and it seemed the Draught would eventually wear off soon. Voldemort would want to '_palaver_' fast. The man stared briefly into the darker corners of the room before drawing a deep breath and beginning to talk.

"It seems our lives have been drawn together by an unbreakable rope, perhaps a noose would be more apt to say. The prophecy predicted you would have the power to destroy me. You tore me from my body, but you did not kill me. Like I have said, the body is redundant when the mind is strong. When our blood was mixed our connection became even stronger, though that was not my intent. Though we have been able to see into each others minds for many years, the connection had never been as significant as what I experienced when I shared my DNA with yours, in more ways than one. It showed me the true horror of what our fates really mean, what connection we truly share and the implications it has. What happened all those years ago on Halloween set forth in motion our entire lives and I might have never understood it. I do now. Do you understand what happened the night I tried to kill you? What that vision meant?"

"I...I thought it meant the prophecy was coming true," Harry mumbled, "I didn't try to figure it out. Thinking back to that made me sick."

Voldemort waved a hand at Harry's disgust. "Think, boy! You must have some idea at what it meant? Surely Dumbledore's brightest student is able to make the connection."

Harry tried to think hard; what had been in the vision again? Voldemort had tried to kill him as a baby but the spell backfired. In the vision he had been in Voldemort's body but as he was hit with the spell, he had gone out of it and into his own baby's body. If it wasn't some metaphorical representation of the prophecy coming true, then what was it? What was he missing? He had been in Voldemort before he was hit, and then he had gone into Harry's body.

"Is it something to do with our connection?" He guessed.

"It has everything to do with the connection," Voldemort agreed, "but think deeper."

Everything to do with their connection. So it was something related to being in Voldemort's body and then into his own, and that related to their connection. What was their connection? Harry was able to feel Voldemort's emotions and see into his mind. Voldemort had been able to use his mind to lay a trap and when he had tried to possess him, it caused him pain. He experienced pain in his scar when he was near. In the vision, he had left Voldemort and gone into the scar. So how did that make them have a connection? And why did Voldemort care so damn much? It wasn't as if when Voldemort died, a piece of himself had split off and -

"No," Harry whispered, eyes wide and staring right at Voldemort, "no, no, no! It can't be! That's impossible! NO!"

"Yes. You know it's true. I can _feel_ it to be true, even if I denied what I saw I could still feel the truth in my soul. In _our_ soul. Tell me, do you feel it too?" Voldemort said, suddenly reaching over and laying a pale hand on Harry's arm. At the contact of their skin, Harry's heart suddenly sped up and the odd, warm feeling in his chest grew alarmingly. He couldn't deny that sudden, strong surge of power that encased his body when that hand touched him. Yes, oh yes, he could feel it.

"What does this mean?" Harry asked softly. "All of it?"

"Now that I understand how foolish it would have been to kill you, how it would have chipped away at my life, I intend to keep you alive. At least until I find a way to remove my soul from your body. Until then, Potter, you will reign with me. You might not want to now, but that power in your body can only grow as your _true_ soul seeks power. A soul like mine would not contend to be weak and what's left of that Potter soul will decay and your true destiny will be apparent. To serve alongside me."

Harry looked at those crimson eyes that flashed with power, that tiny voice in his head screaming that it was all dangerous and ridiculous but a stronger, warmer part of his body saying how perfect this was. How right it would be. How right it would _feel_ to do so. Oh, he could feel the Calming Draught wearing off and he was so conflicted and confused and he didn't know what to do. He could only stare as the man stared back just as strongly, mouth set in a resolute line of man who had already decided the future. Voldemort leaned forward, placing his hands on his knees and spoke softly but sincerely to Harry, leaving no room to denial or rejection. He spoke the truth.

"You're mine," Voldemort said simply. "You're my Horcrux."

* * *

_**Author's Note:**_ _Another note! Hope the build up was worth it. It's definitely going to move along to more exciting (and less torture/incarceration) story-line after this. This chapter was written over a sporadic period of weeks so if the writing style seems different and disjointed, that is why. I have so much of this story planned out that I really hope you all enjoyed it so I can keep writing. Thanks for reading again. All the best!_


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